If you think the world is you, and all your pain, again consumed by self obsession,
Grieving, fearing, failing to be brave, or blaming others.
Again the severing of the powerful feminine too, and hence,
So tediously troubled by your selfish woes and inabilities. Perhaps your lack of love.
Then comes some unexpected news, which should always be expected, some day, if not
Katy is gone and very present. So very young. Four years at war with some aggressive
Cancer, in this aggressive world. It bolted through my chest like horror and woke me up
Again, to every path we take apart, but then together. Inevitably. Like Robert Frost’s, or
Dear, sweet and gentle Katy. Friends knew it and I was some friend, but didn’t know
Your troubles. Some friend! That American girl with giant, febrile eyes, who came to
England with the gentlest soul, decked with the grandeur of an age of Innocence,
Refusing to be startled by the headlights. A child of Edith Wharton. A Lamda actress
Somewhat out of time, so filled with grace and hopes and dreams and kindness too. It
Troubled sometimes, all that vulnerable innocence.
In the gulf of time, and our own disappearing, I forget some things we shared, but hear
Your lovely laughter, and I knew you Katy and am very proud I knew you too, in London
and New York. In the Apple we sat together in a fizzing Spanish diner and I talked of
conquering the world and you tried to reign me in with disapprovals.
Perhaps America was turning the wrong way, even then, or I was and you were right.
Perhaps it is all too big for all of us.
I told you of my father’s coming death and how I wrestled or resented and you told me
How you laid out your bed in your father’s hospital, at his side, and mounted vigil.
“Do it for you” you said, and you were right. I told you of the rage that came with a girl
In New York, at the centre of everything, and foolishly asked your advice and you told
Me it would frighten you. Foolishly, because first I should have heard you, with someone
Equally gentle, but secondly a man should ask a man how to act, or not ask at all, and
Act, and acting is real love. Such empty male rage.
Your voice is there, speaking your admiration for true art, your lovely idealisms, out into
The swirling, noisy, nasty, brilliant world: Recorded Books. You read out the very best
And walked with the very best, always. And so others read it too and hear it
Always. Katy’s special voice. If they listen. And listening is love.
The grieving tribute that your husband sent is a gift beyond everything, the reaching
Out with love, not asking. For that is you and him and what you shared. No more
Intrusion. Grief, like fear, should be silent, contained, as dignified as you, and none of us
Knows what happens in the fight for real love, which is no fight at all. Good night, sweet
Katy, like flights of angels seeking rest, beyond pain, something is singing.
We think our greatest pains, our passions, are the thing, our selfish ‘us’, but you touched
me more than any with real sorrow.
David Clement Davies